


The Garden of Olives

by AVegetarianCannibal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Hannibal eats at a chain restaurant, Hannigram on a date sort of, M/M, Season 1, post-sorbet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5767201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVegetarianCannibal/pseuds/AVegetarianCannibal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will had a terrible time on his first date. Hannibal wants to help him get over it. Bread sticks play a role.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Garden of Olives

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place pretty much right after the events of "Sorbet."

“How was your date with the Chesapeake Ripper?”

Will was just about shuck off his jacket and drew up short at Hannibal’s question. “Pardon?”

“When you couldn’t come to my feast,” Hannibal reminded him, “you said you had a date with the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Will shook his head and laughed as he took his seat opposite Hannibal. “Well, he didn’t put out,” he said, then winced inwardly at his own sense of humor. “Probably should’ve brought him a bottle wine.” He winced again, not so inwardly.

“Probably,” Hannibal agreed with a spark in his eyes. “I know I enjoyed the one you brought me.”

“Heh.”

Hannibal let him sit in awkward silence for a couple of moments before continuing. “Speaking of dates,” he began. “You haven’t discussed your romantic life. Not that you’re under any obligation to, of course.”

“I’d just rather use my time to sort out what’s bothering me about cases,” Will said. “Not much to talk about on the romantic front, anyway. I’ve never been much of a success that way.”

“Certainly not for lack of others approaching you,” Hannibal said.

Will snorted. “Right, sure. My permanent scowl and dog-hair-covered clothes are like magnets to women.”

Hannibal pressed the tips of his fingers together and waited.

“I didn’t even go on my first date until I was *twenty*,” Will said. “I saved up my money and took Celia Fontinelli to the Olive Garden–because she was Italian, you see.”

“I take it Miss Fontinelli didn’t find it especially authentic,” Hannibal said, not hiding his amused smile.

“Honestly, the whole thing was so awful that the worst part wasn’t even when I managed to catch myself on fire.”

“You caught–”

“On fire, yes,” Will said, pushing up his shirtsleeve. “There’s still a tiny patch on my forearm that doesn’t grow hair. Not even peach fuzz.”

“That’s a story I’d like to hear,” Hannibal said.

“Maybe another time,” Will offered, “when I’m very drunk or on my death bed, or both.”

****

A few days later, Will showed up at Hannibal’s office again at the good doctor’s request.

Hannibal met him in the anteroom with his coat and car keys in hand. “I thought we’d have our session out of the office for a change,” he said.

“This…isn’t our usual appointment day,” Will pointed out.

“Indulge me,” Hannibal said. “I think you’ll find it therapeutic.”

“Oh,” Will said, looking longingly over Hannibal’s shoulder toward the office. He’d been looking forward to sinking into that comfortable chair, cocooned in darkness except for the warm flicker of the fire. 

Hannibal ushered him towards his car, saying, “It shouldn’t be too horrible, I promise.”

Twenty or so minutes later, they were in Nottingham and Hannibal was pulling his Bentley into the crowded parking lot outside–

“You’ve brought me to an OLIVE GARDEN,” Will said through gritted teeth. “Is this some kind of joke, Doctor?” He dug his fingers into his knees, humiliated and angry. His stomach suddenly felt cold and cramped.

“I assure you it’s not a joke,” Hannibal said. “I thought you could benefit from having a more positive association with the establishment.”

“The establishment being an OLIVE GARDEN,” Will said, still holding onto his anger. “I never should have said anything.”

"Will, I apologize,” Hannibal said. He put the key back in the ignition. “The last thing I want is for you to feel you can’t open up to me. I’ll drive you back to my office.”

A thought came to Will, so delightfully wicked that he had a hard time disguising his sudden change in mood. He held up his hand. “No, no, we’re already here, and I *am* kind of hungry.” He added a grumpy sigh to the new ruse.

A young woman with dramatic eyebrows and a crisp, white shirt saw them to a booth towards the back of the restaurant. It was cozy and fairly quiet, which just wouldn’t do. “Actually, could we have that table right next to theirs?” Will asked, gesturing to a large family. “My friend here *loves* the sound of children laughing.”

As if on cue, two of the family’s four young children screeched. Another threw his breadstick to the ground and began to sob disconsolately.

“Will–” Hannibal started to say.

“I _insist_ ,” Will said.

Seated at their new table, Will plucked the menu from Hannibal’s hands. “Allow me to order for both of us,“ he said. "If I’m to relive that night, then you have to play Celia Fontinelli’s part.”

A few minutes later, a boy barely out of high school approached their table. “My name is Mark,” he said chipperly, “and I’ll be your waiter tonight.”

“We’ll start with your cheapest, sweetest wine,“ Will said. "In fact, please make it a whole bottle.”

Even in the somewhat dim lighting, Will could tell Hannibal had blanched.

“You’re the one who said it wouldn’t be _too_ horrible,” Will reminded him.

Mark scampered away and returned with a bottle of red moscato, which he dutifully uncorked and poured.

"Reminiscent of cherry cough syrup,” Hannibal noted, taking a whiff of his glass. “Delightful.”

“Are you ready to order or do you need a few moments?” Mark asked.

“My friend is a devout vegetarian,” Will said, and was met by the sound of Hannibal trying not to choke. “What do you recommend?”

“The minestrone is 100% vegetarian,” Mark said. “My boyfriend is vegetarian, too, and I bring him home some all the time.” He tossed in a little wink for good measure.

“Excellent, we’ll both have a bowl, and plenty of breadsticks,” Will said. “Then I think…” He pretended to study the menu for a moment, for he had already made up his mind. “I think the cheese ravioli for him and chicken Caesar salad for me.”

When Mark had left, Hannibal turned his attention to Will. “So this was how your date with Celia Fontinelli went?”

“Oh, no, no,” Will said. “This is actually going much better. I tried to order wine that night but, being only 20 and _looking_ about 14, the waiter just laughed at me.”

“How did your date react to that?” Hannibal asked.

“She laughed, too,” Will said. “Not WITH the waiter, of course, but AT me. She was a year older than me, too, so she could have stepped up and saved me the embarrassment if she’d wanted.”

“But she didn’t want,” Hannibal supposed.

Will tried to conjure an image of Celia in his mind’s eye. She had auburn hair that she wore in tight curls, and he remembered noticing that she had a scattering of freckles high on her chest. She had a terrible laugh, high-pitched and tinny. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her eyes. “You know, I don’t think I even liked Celia much,” Will admitted, frowning to himself.

“And yet you asked her out.”

“It felt like the thing to do,” Will said. “I _wanted_  to like her. I wanted to like _someone_. It would have been the normal thing, maybe.”

Luckily, Mark appeared with their bowls of soup before Will could retreat much further into that little self-examination.

“What ample slices of celery,” Hannibal commented, fishing one out with his spoon. “Must have come from a veritable celery tree.”

Will took a few sips of his soup and found it overly salted, yet thin on flavor aside from the aforementioned celery. Still, he managed to get down half of it while gesturing for Hannibal to do the same.

The children at the next table had all begun crying over some slight or another, scarcely noticed by their parents. Will could see Hannibal growing tenser as the crying devolved into screaming. Hannibal turned slightly in his seat. “Sir, madam, perhaps a breath of fresh air–outdoors–would calm your little ones–”

“Don’t tell us how to raise our kids,” the mother snapped with the ready vehemence of one who’d had to trot out the exact line many times.

“They’re just expressing themselves,” the father said. “Kids should be free to express themselves.”

Hannibal smiled politely. “Quite so, but perhaps not at the expense of–”

The oldest child, around six years old, threw half a breadstick at Hannibal. hitting him square on the forehead.

Will’s hand flew to his mouth to squash whatever was about to come out of it. Laughter? Cursing? He was so shocked he didn’t even know himself.

After several long beats of silence, Will offered, “You know, we could leave any time and it would still be a better night than the one I had with Celia.”

Hannibal turned back in his seat, facing him again. “Nonsense. I haven’t even had my ravioli yet.”

******

Hannibal managed to chew through most of one ravioli before putting his knife and fork back down. “The cheese has an interesting spongy texture, somewhat piqued by the piercing tartness of the sauce. One wonders if they seasoned it with battery acid.”

Will laughed into the back of his hand. “All right, all right. I suppose you’ve earned it.”

“Earned what? I’m almost afraid to know the answer at this point,” Hannibal said.

“The story of how I literally went up in flames,” Will said.

“It was Celia’s birthday,” he went on, “or close enough to it that it made for a good excuse for me to ask her out. I borrowed my father’s one sports jacket. It was too big for me, but I was trying to make a good impression.”

“Of course,” Hannibal said, nodding at him to go on.

“It was probably a poly-cotton blend, not wool for sure, and I guess there was some butane on it from when Dad refilled his lighter–”

“Oh–”

“Yes, you see where this is going,” Will said, laughing despite himself. “I could smell it, so I tried to cover it up with cologne–”

“Ah–”

“Right, right, some knockoff of Obsession by Calvin Klein, not even the real thing, but the five-dollar gas station kind, and I really sprayed it on thick–”

“You were a conflagration waiting to happen,” Hannibal interjected.

“Exactly right,” Will said. “Well, like I said, it was her birthday, sort of, and I brought out a candle to put on her pie a la mode, but it was one of those sparkler candles, like a firecracker almost, and when I lit it–” He made the shape of a mushroom cloud with his hands. “My whole left sleeve caught fire, just… just _instantly_!”

“How frightening it must have been,” Hannibal said, clearly amused.

“Oh, it was,” Will agreed. “But you know what I noticed through the smell of burning fabric and the screams of the other diners? I glanced over and Celia _wasn’t_ scared! She was annoyed! She rolled her eyes at me! Like I’d _planned_ to turn myself into human flambe!”

“Difficult to imagine topping that,” Hannibal said, “but I recall you said that wasn’t the worst part of the night.”

“It was the third-worst part,” Will laughed. “The second was coming back from the restroom after cleaning myself up and finding out Celia had left with our waiter! She’d driven us, so I had to walk home!”

“Oh dear. And the first?”

Will’s laughter faltered. He cringed at the memory. “That was when I got home,” he said. “My dad was livid I’d ruined his one nice jacket, so I lied and said I’d gotten to second base with Celia. I said I’d accidentally elbowed the cigarette lighter in her Chevy when I was making out with her.”

“That appeased him?”

“Like I said, it was the normal thing,” Will said. “He was just glad I was normal. He put margarine on my singed arm–which I know you’re not supposed to do, but he meant well–and then he clapped me on the back and called me a ladies’ man.”

When the silence stretched out too long, Will forced a smile back onto his face. “On the bright side, at least I didn’t have to tip the waiter!”

****

Hannibal drove them back to his office and parked next to Will’s Volvo. It had been a companionably quiet drive, and not as awkward as Will had feared after such personal revelations.

“I’m sorry for assuming you were making fun of me,” he said. “When we got there and I saw the sign. I assumed you were making fun. I know you were trying to help me, in your own way.”

“As I always am,” Hannibal said.

“And I did find it therapeutic, sort of,” Will admitted. “The image of that breadstick hurtling at your head has now replaced my own flaming arm as the foremost memory I have of Olive Garden.”

Hannibal snorted softly. “Then it was all worth it.”

“One of these days, I’ll tell you about the time I finally rounded all the bases with a girl,” Will said. He got into his car and rolled down the window. “But it would involve taking you to a mini golf course and feeding you Frito pie.”

For the second time that night, he saw Hannibal blanch slightly, and laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> I happen to kind of like Olive Garden, myself, but it was at the top of my list of places at which Hannibal would probably _never_ eat.
> 
> Frito Pie: in case you aren't familiar with this here's an [example](http://www.fritolay.com/recipes/recipe-detail/fritos-chili-pie).
> 
> I'm on tumblr under the same username.


End file.
